Across the bridge
The dog and I are resting quietly. Much as I think we both miss my beautiful daughter and her rumbustious three year old, we’re getting on in years the pair of us, and we need a little quiet and to return to our harmonious and ordinary routine. We can reflect – well I can – on how joyful it was to have them with us.
Precious days
I loved the special breakfast they made me on my birthday and the wind chime my grandson made from an empty tin, pink paint, beads and four spoons and gave to me with such sweet earnestness. I loved choosing plants for my garden which was renovated for me by my daughter (while I spent hours at the playground in the world of my grandson’s imagination), and I loved our days on the beach, building sandcastles and knocking them down, paddling and swimming(ish), clambering over rocks and leaving the second hand bookshop with armfuls of Margery Allingham mysteries and Maggie O’Farrell gems. I loved that her dad and I were entrusted with the little one for 24 hours so that my daughter could go to the wedding of a school friend and meet her friends of 30+ years.
So much that is precious. I take not one moment of it for granted.
Beyond
Today is the 7th anniversary of my son’s death. It was hot then too, so hot that in the two days (probably) between his death and being found, his body had decomposed so badly we were not allowed to see him. The family he loved very dearly, with the addition of a nephew he never knew, were together yesterday in the city he called home. We had coffee and cake in ‘his’ cafe, near ‘his’ bench, by the bridge with the padlocks put on in his honour, which spans the water. He’s out of reach, across the bridge, over the threshold, but somehow he’s not gone entirely. In my mind he’s somewhere doing what he needs to be doing, being what he needs to be, beyond my sight, beyond my touch. It’s not for me to know more than this. Perhaps 7 years and a few days ago, I would have poo poohed this idea as wishful thinking. Maybe it is. But also, maybe it isn’t.
Landscape
In the last blog, I mentioned flying over the landscape of my life and it was an idea I carried into the Creative Practice Group for Grief which I have been running over the last little while. We visualised hopping onto or into our mode of transport – inside a bird or in my case onto a magic carpet – and away we went. Except that to my surprise I wasn’t alone on my red and blue carpet. Though I couldn’t see him, there was an indent where my husband sat. I flew to my son’s life.
“You don’t need to go there,” he said. “Leave the darkness where it is, it is done.”
I flew to my daughter’s life.
“There is sunshine and clouds”, he said. “You matter to each other, but this isn’t your life.”
We flew to heavy, wooden, double doors, with luminous purple blooms surrounding them. They opened onto a landscape all my own, orange desert houses and sunlight, my life, spreading out before me.
Was it really my husband? I don’t know, it was entirely unexpected. And it came with love and wisdom: live your life; cross over the threshold of grief and into adventures of your own; embrace freedom; be courageous; trust your life to unfold.
My Life
Having been away for this weekend, I didn’t keep up with emails. This morning I read them. One friend shared a Substack blog with me from D Michelle Perry: Prompt and Ponder. The prompt was ‘Threshold’. Another friend sent me a newsletter from Karine Polwart (amazing Scottish poet and songstress, if you don’t know her) about grief and love and the importance of ritual to hold them, and specifically about the loss of a 200 year old tree at Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh. (See Windblown by Karine, on YouTube if you’re interested.) And another sent me a newsletter, including a recommendation for the book, “To Speak for the Trees”, by Diana Beresford-Kroeger, which I have now ordered. Rich communications.
This is my life. I was in the city yesterday, paying extortionately for parking and getting lost in one-way systems. Today, back in my own environment, I have been sitting beneath the trees in dappled light, the river my sound track and breathing easily. Trees. River. Love and grief – inevitably together. Friendship. Beauty. Song. Creativity. Family. More love, more grief.
Passing through the territory of grief has been arduous, continues to be so sometimes, but it has also been transformative. If I can put my finger on one thing, it is this: appreciation – appreciation for all the love and beauty present within my life. I can’t always find it or feel it. But perhaps, when I hear the wind chiming through the tin and spoons given to me by my wee boy, it will help remind me to hang on in there, love is with me and around me, even if right now it is just out of reach, beyond my sight, beyond my touch.
With love
Nickie
NEWS
I am aware that I haven’t shared much in the way of news and upcoming events in recent weeks. Since Dying Matters Week in May, I’ve taken time away from creating events and promoting groups, to focus on getting my book out to agents. So far I have managed exactly nothing! Family, health, accounts, friends and my usual work of one on ones, choir, blog and hospice seem to have filled my days. I have though, been dreaming, mulling and enquiring. I anticipate news of things to come very soon.
Meanwhile, if there is something you would like me to run for you, let me know. The Creative Practice Group for people who are grieving grew out of an enquiry from someone who asked for support. I love being able to respond to specific requests so do please ask.
Buy Me a Coffee
A very big thank you to those of you who generously support this blog with your donations to Buy Me a Coffee. I gift this blog as well as my work at a local hospice and my work leading a threshold choir singing for those on the threshold of life, and so I am extremely grateful for any support you offer me. If you would like to donate at any time, you can do so here. Thank you.
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